Prisoner TwoEightNine
by HorcruxesandHallows
Summary: Utopia: The perfect world, socially, politically and morally. A world where the poor rule over the rich. A world where the rich are kept as prisoners. A world where love between the rich and the poor is forbidden. This is the world of Prisoner 289.
1. Chapter 1

_Utopia: The perfect world, socially, politically and morally. A world where the poor (or the 'privileged' as they prefer to be addressed) rule over the rich. A world where the rich are kept as prisoners, another name for slaves. A world where love between the rich and the poor is forbidden. This is the world of Prisoner Two-Eight-Nine._

**Chapter One**

_In which we are given a brief overview into the life of Prisoner Two-Eight-Nine._

I switch off the alarm and roll over onto my back. It's 5 o'clock. Time for work. It is the same every morning. I wake up at 5am. I make breakfast for 6, when Mr. Barrington requires it before work. I wake the children at 7. I ensure that they have their breakfast and are ready for socialisation by 8. Mrs. Barrington must be awoken at 9, long after the children have left. She cannot cope with children so early in the morning. The dishes must be washed and put away by 10, when Mr. Barrington's fellow citizens arrive. Only the rich keep unkempt houses, Mr. Barrington says. Mr. Barrington does not wish to be like the rich.

I peel back my bed covers and pull my feet out, pressing them onto the cold wooden floor. I get a quick wash and change my clothes, tying the red pig-shaped pendant around my neck, before heading upstairs to the kitchen.

The Barrington house in which I work is not a large one. It is a basic house with nine rooms over two floors - four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, a dining room and a kitchen - as well as a basement. The Republic does not believe in lavish homes with rooms that have no necessity. No velvet curtains or silk cushions or carved mahogany fireplaces. Only the rich have such unnecessary luxuries.

I make the porridge for breakfast. I make porridge everyday for breakfast. You would think that one day they'd all get bored but they don't. They dare not. The Republic has very strict rules about meal times. Breakfast especially need not be the grand meal that the rich used to have. Porridge has all the nutrients in it to succeed in your day-to-day tasks, therefore porridge is what the citizens eat every morning for breakfast.

I prepare the porridge quietly, careful not to wake anyone up. The house is freezing cold but the heating will not come on for another hour, when Mr. Barrington wakes up. The Republic is very rigid concerning heating, especially in winter. The economy of Utopia will suffer if everyone has their heating on all the time, so Mr. Barrington has the heating on for two hours in the morning and two at night. For the rest of the time, blankets are provided, the only exceptions being when citizens visit. Mr. Barrington insists that any citizens his house must be suited to their every need.

Mr. Barrington comes down at 7. He stands still and lets me fix his tie around his thick neck, slowly and carefully so as to avoid actually touching him, before sitting down to his porridge. I'm not sure how Mr. Barrington manages to be so large, but I can only suspect that he has found someway of snacking at work without anyone finding out.

"Mrs. Barrington isn't feeling too well this morning," he says through a mouthful of porridge. "I suggested she stay in bed but Mr. Nevvett is coming today. Do you remember I told you yesterday?" I don't remember but I nod my head anyway. Mr. Barrington's memory is terrible. It's likely that he didn't tell me anything at all. "Mr. Nevvett is coming from Zone V. Shouldn't think there'll be much jetlag. They're only 2 hours ahead there, aren't they?"

I busy myself cleaning the six rabbits that Mr. Barrington has told me to cook for tonight's dinner. I skinned them yesterday but I couldn't bring myself to clean all of their insides. Mr. Barrington doesn't seem to mind. He just eats his porridge, glancing my way every so often, rambling on about poor Mr. Nevvett who lives alone. No wife. No children. Not even a prisoner to keep him company. I think I'm forgiven for not being entirely sympathetic.

"Mr. Nevvet is to arrive this morning," Mr. Barrington is saying. I'm not really paying much attention. My hands are covered in rabbit entrails and it's all I can do to stop myself screaming. Usually Mr. Thomas, the meat producer, provides me with clean rabbits, but he isn't around anymore. "He'll be here by twelve o'clock. I suppose he'll be arriving by air-coach. Mrs. Barrington will be here to greet him. Prisoner Two-Eight-Nine, are you listening?"

I turn around and nod quickly before washing the last of the rabbit guts down the kitchen sink. I'll need to see to preparing the guest room for Mr. Nevvett. After I wake the children and wash them and get them their breakfast, but before Mrs. Barrington wakes up. She will no doubt want to inspect it in her usual silent manner before Mr. Nevvett arrives. Mrs. Barrington never speaks. Not when I'm around anyway. She is a pale, miserable woman who does nothing but puff on her foul-smelling cigarettes all day long. I can't tell if she's scared of me or simply repulsed. Either way, she doesn't like being in my presence.

"Mr. Nevvett works in finance," Mr. Barrington continues. "He has come to learn about the way business works here in Zone X. I can't imagine it'll be all that different. The Republic like most things to be the same…" He pauses for a moment to gulp down his glass of water in one go. "He'll probably be staying for a while, I should think. There's a lot to learn at the factory, you know." I stifle a grin at Mr. Barrington's comment, wondering if he has told Mr. nevvett that he is actually the manager of an underwear factory. I wouldn't. It's hardly the back-bone of the economy.

I put the rabbits in the meat oven. Mrs. Barrington insists there be three ovens in the house – one for meat, one for baking and other such things, and one for me. My oven is kept in the basement, with what little else that I own - three dresses, two pairs of shoes, two hats, two sets of underwear, a bag of make-up and a bottle of perfume.

It's not yet 7 when Mr. Barrington leaves so I wait in the kitchen for a while. I hate having to wake the children up. They really are horrid. The twins, Samuel and Rupert, are mischievous, but I suppose that's just part of being a child. Danielle, however, the eldest child and only daughter, is awful. She is what I think the Old World used to call a 'bitch', although I'm not entirely sure what that means. She enjoys telling tales, especially on me, regardless of the fact that she knows I will be punished for them. It's worse in the mornings. If she doesn't get out of bed, Mrs. Barrington gets angry. She tells her husband, who sees that I am punished. But if I physically force Danielle to get up, she tells her mother that I've somehow been abusing her. Either way it doesn't turn out too well for me.

I wait in the kitchen, stealing spoonfuls of porridge. I'm careful not to take too much. Danielle knows when I've taken some. She checks the pot. If she thinks there might be even the slightest bit less than yesterday, she tells her mother.

Thankfully, Danielle is in a good mood this morning. There is only minimal argument when I tell her to get up and only a few curses when I throw back her curtains and let in the light. The twins are giggling in the dark when I near their room. I understand why when a bucket of freezing cold water lands on my head from over the door. I'll definitely catch a cold. I can't afford to shout at them though. I grab them both by the arm and pull them into the bathroom. I have to hurry if I'm to get everything ready before 12 o'clock.

I do. Just about. The room is just ready by the time there comes a knock at the door. I hadn't checked it since Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong came last week. They had left behind a few gifts, mainly several crisp packets beneath the bed. I burn them immediately. How reckless of the Armstrongs to not only eat crisps in the Barrington home but to leave the packets behind. If the enforcers caught the Barrington's with such junk food, we would all be punished. Fortunately there hasn't been a check in weeks.

Mr. Nevvett is a rather young man. Early twenties, I think. He is tall with thick black curls that peep out from under his cap. He easily towers over me with his height of near to six foot. I usher him inside quickly, shutting the door to keep out the cold wind that is forming. He hands me his cap, gloves, scarf and coat, brushing his hands up and down his arms to warm himself. His cheeks are flushed pink with cold.

"Mr. Nevvett." Mrs. Barrington enters the hallway, the usual pained expression on her face, and grasps Mr. Nevvett's hand. Mr. Nevvett brings it up and brushes his lips against it. "How are you?"  
>"Very well, thank you," says Mr. Nevvett, slipping his feet out of his boots at the dark glares Mrs. Barrington are sending towards the damp footprints he is making on the floor. He speaks very slowly, emphasising each word. "It has been a while since I visited one of my fellow citizens. Very busy with work, you see."<p>

"Ah, yes. Mr. Barrington is at work himself, you know." Mrs. Barrington leads Mr. Nevvett away into the living room, leaving me to carry his bags up to the guest bedroom.

Tea is served for Mr. Nevvett and Mrs. Barrington, who seems to be struggling to maintain a conversation with Mr. Nevvett. I wonder why until Mrs. Barrington asks him whether there is a 'special someone' in his life and Mr. Nevvett responds with a series of stuttering mumbles. Poor thing. He seems like a very nervous man, constantly stuttering with hands shaking like leaves.

From what I can gather from their conversation, Mr. Nevvett does something in finance within Zone V's government. I can't hear much given the fact that he is mumbling something terrible and I'm listening through a crack in the living room door, but Mrs. Barrington is talking energetically about his work, about how he is so useful to the Republic, to Utopia. It's the same with Mr. Barrington, Mrs. Barrington animatedly tells Mr. Nevvett. Mr. Nevvett nods politely, though I notice that Mrs. Barrington does not directly tell him exactly what Mr. Barrington does.

I think I have a few spare minutes so I stay at the door a while longer watching Mr. Nevvett and Mrs. Barrington's awkward exchange. Mr. Nevvett seems incredibly twitchy here. I suspect he isn't used to human company since he lives alone. He almost knocks the teapot over twice and spills half the sugar over the table. Mrs. Barrington is trying hard to maintain a conversation, but she's close to giving up. She keeps checking the door every few minutes, hoping Mr. Barrington will come home soon to rescue her. The vein is throbbing in her temple. She is stressed.

"I've never been to Zone V, Mr. Nevvett," Mrs. Barrington says. "How is it? I imagine the climate is a great deal better than here in X."

"Yes, it is," says Mr. Nevvett in his soft, quiet voice that's practically inaudible where I'm standing. "The weather h-here is quite cold, isn't it? I th-think it's the wind that does it. It's awful."

Mrs. Barrington nods politely, standing up to pull the small box of cigarettes from the fireplace. She offers Mr. Nevvett one, to which he politely declines. "Mr. Barrington hates the wind. It gives him awful earache, you know. It must be nice having all that sunshine in Zone V."

He mumbles softly. I assume it's some from of affirmative answer. He runs a shaking hand through his messy head of curls as they sit in silence, Mrs. Barrington's pinched lips dragging repeatedly on the cigarette, hardly pausing for air. It's a wonder she has any lips left really. She's always smoking those cigarettes. She smokes more than Mr. Barrington. The living room walls and ceiling have an ugly yellow tinge to them from all the fumes.

As I listen to their conversation (or lack thereof) I think how strange it is that the one main thing that the privileged should adopt from the rich was their speech. The Republic was insistent on it. When the revolution came about, and the poor were successful in overthrowing the rich, the second rule that the Republic put forward was that all citizens of Utopia should speak properly. There should be no slang, no broken speech; full comprehensive sentences only. The first rule was that the rich were now the prisoners of Utopia and must suffer for the crimes of their forefathers. They became prisoners. Slaves. I am lucky to have the Barringtons. Other prisoners suffer more than I can ever imagine.

I hear the front door open behind me and rush into the hallway to greet Mr. Barrington. "Is he here?" he asks. I nod. "You have made him comfortable?" I nod again, this time slowly. Mr. Barrington gives me a funny sort of glare before joining them in the living room. I don't think I have made him as comfortable as I should have.

Later, after the Barringtons and Mr. Nevvett have eaten the rabbit and Mr. Barrington has drunk endless amounts of brandy and Mrs. Barrington has had six more cigarettes, I put the children to bed and go to the basement to clean myself up. I change into the clean underwear and dress that Mr. Barrington suggests I wear whenever a citizen is visiting and put on the perfume. My face is smeared with make-up, even though I'm not any good at putting it on. I look like a clown, I'm sure of it, but this is how Mr. Barrington likes me to look. I take of my necklace and place it underneath my dress. If any enforcers saw me now I'd likely be shot for not wearing it, but Mr. Barrington insists I take it off when entertaining citizens. He says that they do not like to be reminded of what I am. It can unnerve a man.

Mr. Nevvett does not take long to decide that he is going to bed. He passes me in the hallway and gives me a small nod, startling me somewhat since citizens usually refrain from even making eye-contact with prisoners on an everyday basis. I reach the living room just as Mrs. Barrington is leaving, a cigarette in hand. I find myself hoping that she somehow manages to singe herself with it.

Mr. Barrington looks me up and down, assessing my appearance. He smiles taking a step towards me and putting a hand on my waist. I cringe away from the smell of stale sweat and brandy but he pulls me closer, burying his nose in my hair.

"My wife won't wear perfume anymore," he whispers, inhaling heavily.

I push him back off me. "Mr. Nevvett will be waiting," I say firmly.

"Ah, yes," he says, blinking sluggishly. In fact, at the moment I think he looks just like a giant slug.

"Is he expecting me?"

"No," he says, giving a wave of a beefy hand. "Best to surprise him, eh?"

I hate surprises. I walk away anyway, shuddering as soon as I'm out of sight of Mr. Barrington. He makes my skin crawl every time he touches me.

Mr. Nevvett has switched off his light and has already gone to bed. When I knock on the door he takes a moment to tell me to enter. I do so, standing at the edge of his bed and waiting for further instruction. He just stares at me.

"Good evening," he says slowly. I don't reply. He waits for a moment before he says, "C-Can I help you?"

I'm not sure what to do. I've never seen someone look so clueless before. Surely he is just pretending. I wait anyway, hoping he'll stop the pretence and make a move. He doesn't so I start to unzip the side of the dress.

"W-what are you doing?" he cries.

I stop, my hand hovering over the zip. "Would you rather I kept my clothes on?"

"Y- yes," he says quickly, eyes bulging.

I pull the zip back up quickly. Good. Clothes on usually means that he isn't planning on taking too long.

"Where do you want me?" I ask, looking around the room.

Mr. Nevvett's looks even more confused. "Excuse m-me?"

"The bed?" I offer. He flinches as I gesture towards where he is sitting upright, cringing against the bedhead.

"I don't think I- I-" He pauses and takes a gulp of air, swallowing hard. "I don't th- think I understand."

I press my lips into a thin line, tired of playing this game. "Well," I say calmly, "some people like to do it in the chair." I point towards the armchair that sits along the right side of the room, next to the bed, and Mr. Nevvett's eyes widen to the point that I don't think I could see any more white. I still don't think he understands so I try to make myself clearer. "Mr. Barrington had requested that I cater to your _every_ need whilst you are here, Mr. Nevvett."

Now he understands. He leaps from the bed immediately, his hands held out palms forward in front of him. "Oh n-no!" he says, firmly but in a hushed voice. "N-n-no, p-please, I don't want- I, um, s-so sorry f-f-for mislead-ding you-"

"Mr. Nevvet," I interupt, scared that he is on the verge of some form of breakdown. "Please calm down. I'm sorry to have caused you any upset."

I turn to leave but he stops me. "Wait, p-please," he says, taking a moment to steady his breathing, which has become rather laboured since his outburst. "Will you- I mean- Um... Will you g-get in t-trouble if you leave n-now?"

I know I will for sure but I shake my head anyway. "I'm sure Mr. Barrington will understand, Mr. Nevvett," I say before turning back again.

"No, please w-wait," says Mr. Nevvett. "W-wait here for a b- a bit. Please. Just s- sit there. For f-five m-minutes. Then leave."

I stare at him, wondering if this is a test. He seems unable to hold my gaze but I don't think that it's because he's doing anything wrong to me. He has nothing to gain from such a strange request anyway.  
>I settle myself into the armchair as Mr. Nevvett slides back into bed, turning his back to me and pulling the covers up so that all I can see are a few tufts of black curls. I fold my arms across my chest and turn my attention towards the clock on his bedside.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_In which we meet the butcher, the bakers and the candle-stick maker._

I place the bowls of steaming porridge in front of Mr. Barrington and Mr. Nevvett, who is refusing to meet my eye. I stayed in his room for half an hour last night, as he had asked me to. I don't know if he was asleep by the time I left, but he certainly did not move.

There is a heavy rain pouring down this morning, coating the cobbles with a thick layer of mud. Mr. Barrington seems as miserable as the weather, which is likely a result of the hangover he no doubt has from indulging on all that brandy.

"Mr. Nevvett," Mr. Barrington says suddenly, making Mr. Nevvett jump and his porridge slop off his spoon and back down into the bowl. "Excited for a hard day's work?"

Mr. Nevvett nods. "Yes, Mr. B- Barrington, I think th- this will be a valuable l- learning experience for me."

Mr. Barrington leans closer across the table. "What did you say? You're going to have to speak up, Mr. Nevvett. My ears – they aren't what they used to be."

Mr. Nevvett swallows his porridge and starts swirling it around the bowl as he speaks. "I said it w- will be a v- very-"

"It's no use, Mr. Nevvett! I can't understand a word you're saying!"

Mr. Nevvett closes his eyes for a moment. I wonder if he's counting to ten but Mr. Barrington catches me looking and I turn back to the chicken that I'm washing for tonight's dinner. It's a measly thing, no bigger than a pigeon. I wouldn't be surprised if it really were a pigeon. The woman I bought it from in the centre did not look very trustworthy.

"So, Mr. Nevvett - and remember to speak up when you answer me - what exactly is it that you do in Zone V?" Mr. Barrington asks.

Mr. Nevvett takes a few sips of water and clears his throat before answering, "Accounting. I work in the Department of Finance in the zone's centre."

"Ah," says Mr. Barrington, raising his eyebrows. They don't just choose anybody to work in the departments in zone centres. Intelligence is needed. I can't help but wonder how Mr. Nevvett, a mumbling, stuttering twenty-something year old with no wife and no family to speak of managed to get a job in Zone X's Department of Finance. The workers in departments are usually respectable family men. Mr. Nevvett is obviously very intelligent. "You do paperwork there, do you?" Mr. Barrington asks. I smile. Typical. Mr. Nevvett couldn't possibly be clever enough to have a better job than Mr. Barrington.

"Uh, no," Mr. Nevvett mumbles. "I'm an accountant."

"Apprentice, eh?"

"No, Mr. B- Barrington," Mr. Nevvett says firmly. "I am f- fully qualified." Mr. Barrington fixes Mr. Nevvett with a look of disdain when he thinks he is not looking.

It is as I am putting out the bins later that morning that I see adults and children alike skidding down the road towards the zone centre, their faces lit up with a mixture of excitement and concern. Mrs. Barrington has gone to visit her friend on the outskirts of Zone X so the house is completely empty. I grab my coat and scarf and close the door softly behind me.

There's a large crowd in the centre, a grey mass of coats shuddering under the cold, pouring rain. . I wrap the scarf tightly around my neck to hide the pendant and pull my hood up, hoping that no-one will recognise me. If I am found to be concealing my pendant I will be shot. The market stalls that surround the edges have been abandoned. Everyone is focusing on the make-shift stage in front of the Department of Innocence (the department in which judicial trials are held here in Zone X, strangely named since no-one ever is ever found innocent there). The stage is only ever used for official meetings of the Republic (there isn't one scheduled until next week) and executions. Entertainment is forbidden by the Republic unless it is pre-recorded and therefore can only be watched on the television or in cinemas. The Republic prefers to use the cinemas since they are more able to screen reactions to news bulletins. That way it is easier for them to spot those who do not agree with the Republic's ideas. Public entertainment is too risky for the Republic. They try to avoid any occasion which could lead in any way to anti-Republican opinions being implanted into the citizens. Plays are forbidden and music is forbidden.

Enforcers line the centre, surrounding the observers in case anything happens. It won't. It never does. The people of Utopia seem to have lost their appetite for revolution now. I push my way through the crowd to get a look at what's going on, bumping into a man dressed in a long black Macintosh on my way. I apologise and he in turn apologises also. Although it was I who bumped into him, I think I came out worse. I can feel my arm beginning to bruise where I banged it on something solid beneath his cloak. I rub it gently, standing on my tiptoes to get a better look of what's happening. The rain has already soaked through my coat and is slowly seeping through to my underwear.

On the stage, ten enforcers stand in a row in their thick trench coats and hats, their guns by their sides. I can feel the buzz of the crowd as they watch the stage intently, waiting for the show to begin. I hear a scream all of a sudden, a long guttural wail. A man is being dragged onto the stage, his body seemingly lifeless. He is not the source of the scream; a woman is being pulled behind him, fighting against the enforcers that are restraining her. She is bound and gagged but still she is managing the pitiful wailing sounds. I recognise her immediately. She is Mrs. Evans, the bread producer here in Zone X. _Ex_ bread producer.

They haul her onto the stage and force her to kneel. Her body sags forward on the ground, her forehead almost touching the floor. Her husband kneels beside her. They have not bound him but I doubt that he could put up any fight. They both disappeared three weeks ago but already he is indistinguishable. His once fit figure is thin, his cheeks are sullen, his face bloody, his eyes swollen over with bruising. The rain soaks them within minutes, making the blood on Mr. Evans face dribble down in streaks.

They stay motionless on the floor as the row of enforcers splits in half, allowing the tall figure of Mr. Smith to pass through, a prisoner at his side to hold an umbrella over him. Mr. Smith is the Supervisor of Zone X, an ageless man with pure white hair and expressionless grey eyes. He has been Zone X's Supervisor for as long as I can remember yet he has never changed in appearance. Even his black pin-striped suits have always been the same.

Mr. Smith walks to the front of the stage and climbs up on to the podium, clearing his throat. His voice echoes around the centre. I notice the camera lights flashing around the stage and pull the hood tighter over my face. If the Republic is not broadcasting the executions live, then they will no doubt show them within the hour when they are able to edit out anything which they deem to be unnecessary. I cannot be here.

"Citizens of Zone X," Mr. Smith's voice calls across the zone centre. He takes a dramatic pause to allow his words to reach every ear present. "You know how much it pains the Republic whenever it sees that you are unhappy. The Republic does not want you to be unhappy. It has done everything it can to ensure that the people of Utopia are fulfilled in everything that you do. It has ensured that you are never hungry, never cold, never without a helping hand. Do you know why it helps you?"

The square remains silent as the citizens of Zone X stare up at their supervisor. I can only hear the constant thudding of rain on my hood. Mr. Smith wets his lips and stares out from his place on the stage. "The Republic helps you," he says softly, "because it cares. The Republic does not want to return to that vile place that was once called Earth, where the rich stole the food from our mouths as we starved on the streets. Where we were made to grovel at their feet, suffer their constant tormenting, submit to their every demand. The Republic wants us to be free of oppression, free of the crushing weight of Capitalism."

Out of the corner of my eye I see the man that I bumped into earlier. He is slowly edging his way towards the stage his hand secured over something inside of his coat. I watch him nervously as he stares unblinking at Mr. Smith, pure hatred in his eyes.

"So you, my fellow citizens, can understand why the Republic is so deeply hurt when it sees such abhorrent acts of rebellion as have been displayed by these _so-called_ citizens." He gestures to Mr. and Mrs. Evans on the floor, giving them looks of disappointment as if they were no more than insubordinate school-children. "Last year, fellow citizens, Zone X suffered a shortage of bread." I dare not look around me, but I wonder if the other citizens present are as confused as I am. We have not had a bread shortage for years. Mr. Smith told us just last month that our wheat supplies were at the highest they had ever been due to our positive relationship with Zone M, where maize, wheat and oats grows in abundance.

He is lying. I know he is yet the citizens of Zone X stand mesmerised by his words, soaking up his blatant lies as easily as my coat is soaking up the rain. I have no doubt that there have been occasions on which we have gone without bread, but when I say 'we' I do not include the privileged of Zone X. The Department of resources has never failed to provide the privileged in our zone with bread. The rich, however, are allowed only what the privileged choose to give them, which can often be nothing at all.

"The Department of Resources tried to cover it up as best as was possible, citizens, which resulted in myself and others within the department going without bread to prevent your suffering." Mr. Smith pauses to fix Mr. and Mrs. Evans with looks of deepest loathing. "These were the causes of our hunger!" he cries, pointing an accusing finger at the Evans. Mrs. Evans whimpers before the crowd begins to whisper in a low hiss. "They hoarded bread within their homes so that we would go without! I ask you, citizens of Zone X, what do these vermin remind you of?"

There is a murmur amongst the crowd before one of the braver of our citizens shouts out, "The rich!"

Mr. Smith claps his hands together. "Yes!" he cries. "Yes, citizens! Was it not the rich who hoarded food all those years ago? Was it not the rich who kept our food so that we would starve and gorged themselves on it whilst we begged for one morsel? Those filthy rich swines!"

The crowd suddenly comes alive in its anger, calling for the blood of Mr. and Mrs. Evans who kneel shaking on the stage. The man that I bumped into has reached the edge of the stage. In the chaotic anger that Mr. Smith has now created nobody seems to notice anything odd about him, but I can see the tip of whatever is under his coat and realise with horror that it is a gun. There is no way that this one man can hope to leave this centre, with its one hundred or more enforcers, alive. Clearly he is insane.

Mr. Smith, oblivious to the madman advancing on him, takes a step off the podium and retreats to the back of the stage as Mr. and Mrs. Evans are made to stand. The ten enforcers line up opposite them, five guns per victim. "Ready!" calls Mr. Smith. The enforcers lift their guns and aim them at Mr. and Mrs. Evans. "Aim!"

A gun goes off suddenly. Mr. Smith's calm expression turns to anger. He turns to the row of enforcers but becomes as confused as the rest of us when one of them crumples to the floor, blood seeping from the bullet-wound in his back.

"You are a liar, Mr. Smith," a voice fills the centre. "These two people have done nothing to harm the people of Zone X and you know it."

I turn towards the direction of the madman but the square has suddenly come alive with screams. I'm being pushed in every direction, sliding along the floor which is slick with rain and mud. Everyone is moving toward the exits but they have been blocked by enforcers who have appeared out of nowhere to pen us in. Nobody is leaving here until the culprit is found.

"People of Zone X," the voice calls, "do you want to know exactly what _crime_ has been committed against our ridiculous Republic?"

I'm being crushed in the crowd as people push their way out of the centre. I turn back, fighting against them until they thin out enough for me to breathe.

"They gave bread to a group of prisoners, all of whom are dead of course."

I turn to the stage and see that Mr. Smith is barking orders to the enforcers but I can't hear him. His microphone has been switched off and all I can hear are the sounds of panic coming from the people around me.

"This one act of kindness was all it took for the Republic to sentence these people to execution. How long do you thing before the Republic comes for you?"

The enforcers are closing in on us, herding us so that we're squashed into a smaller circle. I move back to the stage, looking around me for any chance of escape. Mr. Smith looks dishevelled, his usually neatly placed hair falling down into his eyes. He pushes one of the enforcers back and snatches his gun away, hitting him round the head with it.

The madman places his foot on the first step up to the stage and, when he opens his mouth, I am sure that he is insane. For the man begins to sing, "Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie." At this forbidden action the citizens of Zone X turn to watch the madman. The enforcers stop, the citizens stop, even Mr. Smith stops, his face a deathly-white shade. I don't know this song, but some form of realisation spreads across Mr. Smith's face as he tries to decipher its meaning. He must know, I think. This man must know that he will never leave here alive.

Mr. Smith regains his posture and, smoothing back his hair, lifts his gun up and points it at Mr. and Mrs. Evans. The madman aims his own gun at Mr. Smith, who subsequently grabs hold of his prisoner and uses him as a shield.

I'm knocked down by struggling citizens. My head knocks against the cobbles and everything takes a dream-like haze. I'm having trouble working out what is dream and what is reality. There are guns going off but I don't know who is firing. Is it the enforcers, the madman or Mr. Smith? Or has the madman some accomplices here with him?

I haul myself to my knees and force myself to stand. A hot liquid hits the side of my face. I wipe it away and stare at the blood on my hand. Mrs. Evans' dead eyes stare at me from the stage but I see no sign of Mr. Evans or Mr. Smith or the madman. Before I can find out what's really going on, the enforcers open fire on the crowd. They shoot at will, whoever is in their way. They are disposable. The Republic cannot have news of this incident spreading, so here is your warning. Here is what will happen to survivors if they should even think of opening their mouths.

I look around the centre. Everyone is running towards the one exit beside the Department of Innocence. Those at the back of the crowd are being shot down like animals. I can see the door of the dress producers open and I stagger towards it promptly, readjusting my hood over my face and ducking to avoid any bullets.

I don't know how I make it but I do. I slam the door behind me and fix a chair under the handle to prevent it from being opened. I trample through the shop, not caring about the muddy foot-prints behind me. The back door is locked, the key elsewhere, but the lock is weak and is easily knocked out with a pair of scissors. The alleyway is deserted. I can still hear screams and gunfire from the centre but there is nothing I can do now. All I can do is return to the Barringtons' home and wash away any trace of evidence that this afternoon even happened.

And, ten minutes later, when the executions flicker onto the television screen in the Barringtons' living room, even I start to believe that nothing happened, because that is all they show: Mr. and Mrs. Evans, traitors to the Republic for hoarding bread. Simple executions, nothing more.

_**Just thought I'd point out the fact that I have bumped the rating up to an M, because there may be some sex and violence in this. Sorry if that disappoints anyone. Also, I changed Mr. Thomas' job in Chapter One from the 'butcher' to the 'meat producer'. I don't want you to get confused with him and the metaphorical butcher who is mentioned in this chapter's subtitle. **_

_**In case you are confused, the metaphorical Butcher is Mr. Smith, a man who is prepared to kill anyone and everyone if he feels the occasion suits it; the Bakers are the citizens of Utopia, willing to go along with pretty much anything as long as they think they're happy; and the candle-stick maker would be our madman, lighting the way out of the oppression which is Utopia. Got it?**_

_**Thank you to SkyeElf, TeamGaleSoIGetPeeta, Shikishima, skaterofthebooks and LizziePixie-Aiko (*waves back like a loon*) for the reviews.**_

_**Please leave a review!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_In which their allegiance to the Republic is tested. _

Mrs. Barrington said nothing when she came home that afternoon, neither did Mr. Barrington nor Mr. Nevvett. I took that to mean that the enforcers had done a good job at clearing up after themselves. They have likely enlisted the help of the Department of Cleanliness, the department here in Zone X which specialises in cleaning up after anything which might be seen to be unsettling to the citizens or to the Republic. I don't remember the last time anyone mentioned the Department of Cleanliness, but that means little since part of their job involves remaining undetected.

I help Samuel and Rupert change out of their clothes and into ones that are more suitable for the house, as they tell me about what they learnt in Socialisation today. They learnt about the Old World, explained Samuel, and how the rich brainwashed the poor into thinking that their lives were perfect. The rich made the poor think that the class system was the natural order to things, but that if they worked hard enough the poor could become rich also. This was seldom the case. Samuel seems very enthusiastic when he talks about the Old World. Rupert responds with the occasional nod but says nothing, as usual. He hardly ever talks. Mr. Barrington says he's like that because he's the youngest by, as Samuel frequently reminds me, around three minutes.

Finally dressed in their uniform grey T-shirts and shorts, Samuel and Rupert trail downstairs to where Mr. and Mrs. Barrington sit with Mr. Nevvett. Danielle follows soon afterwards, wearing a dress that is far too low-cut to be appropriate, but Mr. Barrington only gives it a disapproving look. I'm not surprised to see that Mr. Barrington is the only one talking, nor that Mrs. Barrington, judging by the contents of her ashtray, is on her sixth cigarette. Mr. Nevvett shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Danielle sidles up beside him, giving her nervous side-glances whenever she so much as moves.

I serve the tea and return five minutes later with biscuits. Mr. Barrington is showing Mr. Nevvett today's newspaper. Mr. Nevvett squints at it at first before giving up and pulling a pair of glasses from his pocket, magnifying his blue eyes. I wonder if his eyes are the colour of the sea. I've never seen the sea. I heard from a woman once that it was like the sky except so much more beautiful. She said there were so many blues and greens, more than you could ever imagine. I think that Mr. Nevvett's eyes are blue enough to be the colour of the sea.

The news is uneventful today. There is no sign of anything abnormal, just the usual list of executions for this week, except for the news that Zone X now has a negative relationship with Zone C and that we therefore are suffering from meat shortages. Nobody questions this news. Nobody has reason to question the news.

"What do you think of this business with Zone C, Mr. Nevvett?" Mr. Barrington asks.

"M- Me?" says Mr. Nevvett softly. "Well, it's t-terrible news, isn't it?"

I leave Mr. Nevvett to his mumbling and hide myself away in the kitchen. I wonder if they have Prisoners in Zone V. Surely they must do. Unless they've all be wiped out of course. That could explain why Mr. Nevvett is so unsure as to how to act around me. He has manners, and I can see that he desperately wants to use them, but every time he opens his mouth to say 'thank you' or waits to hold a door open for me, his eyes flicker towards Mr. and Mrs. Barrington and he seems to remember.

Don't waste good manners on the prisoner - it can barely understand what you're saying. Don't make eye contact with the prisoner - it will take this as a sign of aggression. Do not show any courtesy to the prisoner - its ancestors never showed us any. Do not discuss the Republic with the Prisoner, as you should not discuss it with any citizen - the Prisoner will not hesitate to warp your mind with anti-Republican ideas.

Those are just a few of the rules laid out by the Republic concerning Prisoners. They are not human. They never were human and, as such, they never will be. I sometimes think about that. I look like a human being and I speak like a human being but the Republic say that I am not one, therefore it must be true. Perhaps I do not think like a human, but how am I to know how a human thinks?

I forget about it. I have to. Questioning the Republic in any way will result only in execution. So I busy myself with the potatoes. We are only allowed to use three per day this week, since Zone Y's productivity is currently low, so I'm careful when peeling them. Taking one more is not an option. There is always the possibility that Enforcers will check the bins.

It is as I'm peeling the potatoes that I feel arms around my waist. I don't say anything as I put the knife and the potato down and allow myself to be pulled back into Mr Barrington's body. I can smell stale alcohol on his breath and wonder how he can be so stupid. If the Enforcers smell it, he will be punished.

"We've eaten all the biscuits," he whispers into my ear as his hands travels over my stomach and chest. I close my eyes and hold the counter for support.

"You can't have any more," I say firmly. "You can only have twelve today."

"But that's only two each. Give me another..."

"The Republic forbids it," I say, squeezing my eyes shut. I won't think about what he's doing to me or where he's putting my hand.

Only three potatoes today. Rupert likes mashed potatoes. I would make them but we aren't allowed to use the milk for anything other than cereal. We get milk from Zone Y too... Think about something else, Prisoner Two-Eight-Nine. Think about something else.

Perhaps I'll boil the potatoes. Danielle doesn't particularly like boiled potatoes but they are healthy and Mr Barrington- No, don't think about him.

The meat. Meat is still low and it'll mean nothing for me to eat tonight. I wonder what meat it is? I suspect goat. It had a smell of goat about it.

I'm trying my best to block him out. I'm trying to think of anything save for what is behind me but he's using my shoulder to muffle out his groans and it's all I can hear, no matter how much I don't want to. I hope they can't hear it from the living room.

He finishes and leaves me alone to wash my hands in the kitchen sink after giving me the hint that Mr. Nevvett seems less than happy this afternoon. After he's gone, I wonder if Mr. Barrington makes a conscious effort not to see me as a human being. I wonder if all the Barringtons do.

x x x x x

I think he had thought, after that first night, that it would stop. Still, Mr. Nevvett manages to mask his horror much better tonight when I turn up with my painted face and revealing clothes. I sit down in the chair and he sits on his bed, unsure of what to do, avoiding eye contact as best he can. Fine by me.

It seems I have interrupted his reading since there lies an open book on his bedside table. I can see the cover from where I sit. It has a picture of a field of white flowers with a wooden cross in the middle.

"You can b-borrow it if you like," Mr. Nevvett says suddenly in a quiet voice. I jump. I hadn't seen him looking.

"No, thank you," I say, glancing quickly at him before focusing my eyes back down on the hands in my lap.

He stands and picks up the book, turning it over to flick through it absently. "It's qu-quite interesting," he mumbles. "It's about r-religion."

I try to mask the horrified look that's just appeared on my face. He cannot have a book about religion. Religion is forbidden. It was just one of the tools used by the ruling class to control the poor.

"N-no!" he quickly stammers in a hushed hiss. "It's not- I m-mean, it isn't f-for-" But he can't seem to bring himself to say the word. "It's about how r-religion was the Opium of the P-People. M-Mr. Jones wrote it. He's the S-Supervisor of Zone V."

When he puts the book down I can see his hands are shaking and I can't help but feel sorry for him. He looks so helpless and all I want is to put my hand over his and tell him to calm down. But then I realise that he'd probably have heart failure if I so much as touch him, so instead I say, "I can't read," and he gives me a funny sort of look, a mixture between shock and pity.

"C-Can't read?" he repeats. "Why ever not?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Nobody ever taught me."

I don't look up but I can hear the creaking of the bed as he sits down again.

"You never went to school."

He says it quietly and I'm not sure if he meant it as a question or a statement but I nod anyway. Schools are for civilised human beings. What on Earth could the Republic teach these barbaric prisoners? The Rich, the Republic says, used to get the best schooling, but no amount of education seemed to be able to teach the Rich morals, who cared for no-one but themselves. They still remained greedy, uncivilised animals. The Republic believed at first that the way the Rich behaved was due to something called money, which the Rich would use in the Old World to make themselves seem better than the Poor. Therefore, the first thing prohibited by the Republic was money, yet it still did not have the desired effect of humanising the Rich. There was nothing that could do that.

"We don't have P-p-prisoners in Zone V," he says. I look at him. He's staring down at his hands, a spaced-out expression on his face. "I suppose they've all gone..."

I thought as much.

"Your parents..." he begins, letting his voice trail off. "Where they- Uh... Um..."

"Prisoners?" I offer. He nods. I think about the question before I answer it, but even as I do I'm not sure why he's asking this. "My mother was a Prisoner. She's dead now. I never knew my father."

Of course, the last part is a lie but I see no reason to tell Mr. Nevvett this. He just nods like he's just been given the answer to some strange mystery and his mouth twitches into what I can only assume is a smile. I don't smile back, folding my arms across my chest and turning to watch the clock.

x x x x x

The letter came in the morning. Mr. Barrington's voice holds no expression as he reads it to his family and Mr. Nevvett.

"Week commencing June 25th..." he begins. "Blah, blah, blah... Here it is. Barrington. Oh, and here's your name too, Mr. Nevvett. You must be coming with us this year. Wednesday June 27th. That's in... 6 days." He tuts. "Honestly. Is it really necessary to test our allegiance _every_ year?"

Mrs. Barrington clears her throat and gives Mr. Barrington a disapproving look. He glances at the children and at Mr. Nevvett, smiling sheepishly.

"Just kidding," he says. "I think it's good that we do it so often. We need to dig out the anti-Republican traitors as best we can! Isn't that right, boy?"

Rupert looks up at his father. His face has turned pale. He nods and mumbles something incoherent.

"Your first allegiance test," says Mr. Barrington, clapping Samuel on the shoulder. "Excited?"

"Yes, father," says Samuel.

The Republic carries out these allegiance tests on citizens of Utopia aged over ten years old. The Prisoners are not tested. There would be no point. The Republic is already aware that Prisoners despise the Republic.

Wednesday arrives quicker than I expected. Quicker than anyone expected, I think, but no amount of time could prepare them for allegiance testing. It is a random series of questions posed to Citizens whilst they are connected to a lie detection machine. There is no way of knowing what they will ask and no way of controlling the outcome.

Samuel bounces up and down on his bed, brandishing a toy gun and making gunshot noises. He leaps off the bed and aims it at Rupert.

"You have been captured by the Enforcers of Utopia!" he cries. "Pow! Pow, pow, pow!"

Rupert looks down at me as I tie his shoelaces, his feet dangling aimlessly over the side of the bed. Samuel groans.

"You're supposed to die!" he whines. Rupert doesn't even look at him. Samuel sulks. He bops me over the head with the gun before running downstairs.

"What will they ask me?" Rupert whispers after his brother has left.

I look up at him, at his worried eyes and colourless face. "I don't know," I say.

"But what if I can't answer them?"

"I..." I don't know what to say. I don't know what happens in those small rooms on the ground floor of the Department of Innocence. "It's just a test," I assure him, but I know I'm lying. "They aren't doing it to trip you up, Rupert. There's nothing to be worried about."

Then he does something that completely terrifies me: he hugs me. I should push him off but I don't straight away. When I do, I can see that his cheeks are wet with tears. I dry them for him and give his hand a gentle squeeze and tell him not to be so silly.

We walk to the Department of Innocence since it is not too far from the Barrington house and for once it is not raining. I am required to attend the Department with the Barrington's for Prisoner registration.

The Department of Innocence is a large white building in the centre of Zone X. It is filled with hundreds of equally white corridors over ten floors. The first floor is filled with around twenty small rooms, each one with its own lie detection equipment. The second floor is where Prisoners go to be registered; their records are kept on the third floor. Over the fourth, fifth and sixth floors are a series of interrogation rooms. The seventh and eight floors are where rule-breakers are kept until they are able to be transferred to Zone S. I don't, however, know what happens on floors nine and ten. No-one I've met has ever been there.

Mr. Barrington leads the way through the white double doors of the Department. A woman at the front desk wearing incredibly thick glasses tells us to wait in the room at the end of corridor eleven. The prisoner, she explains, must report immediately to Room 235. An enforcer is already present to escort me. I give the Barringtons one last look before I am marched towards the elevator. Rupert looks as though he is about to faint, as does Mr. Nevvett but there's no surprise there.

I wonder how workers in the Department of Innocence don't get lost. The corridors are completely identical – uniform white the whole way down with nothing on the walls to distinguish them – but the Enforcer beside me takes a number of turns and still ends up at Room 235. There is a queue of five other Prisoners waiting outside the room. I stand behind it. My legs are aching by the time the next Prisoner goes in, and by the time it's my turn I'm finding it difficult to stay upright.

The Medical Expert inside of Room 235 is not the same as the one I had last year. He is wearing a long white coat; the colour doesn't surprise me. He has grey hair and large eyes, amplified even more by his glasses, making them out of proportion with the rest of his face. He gestures to a seat in from of him, which I take gratefully, and pulls out a small metal machine. I hold my finger out automatically. He pricks it with a needle. I watch my blood turn blue as it reacts with the air and wipe it onto a small glass slide. The Medical Expert puts the slide into the machine and presses a button.

He stares at me as if he was merely staring into space as the machine whirs and shakes from side to side. I look anywhere but at him, squirming in my chair. The machine stops. It prints out a piece of paper, which he snaps up immediately.

"Ah," he says. He has a soft, quiet voice. "Prisoner Two-Eight-Nine. Shall we get you weighed?"

I stand up and cross the room, stepping onto the scale. He looks at it then back at the piece of paper.

"You've lost two pounds since last year. Good..." He sits back down at his desk and inputs the data into his computer. "And you are still owned by Mr. and Mrs. Barrington?"

"Yes," I say quietly.

He taps away at his keyboard again. "Have you experienced any illnesses this year?"

"No."

"I see..." He rummages in his desk drawer and pulls out a long needle. "It says here on your records that you are twenty-two years old. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Very well." He pulls the cap off the injection and walks around to wear I sit. I roll up my sleeve. "No, no, Two-Eight-Nine, this is not for blood refining. This is your contraception injection."

I can't help but feel my heart sink.

I have no idea how long I have been up on the second floor, but when I return downstairs most of the Barrington's are sat in the reception area of the Department. I stand beside Mr. Barrington and count them. Five. Only five. There is no Rupert.

Mr. Nevvett rings his hands nervously. I wish he would stop doing that - his anxiety only serves to make us all worried. I look to my left down corridor eleven. I keep checking again and again but I can't see any change of activity.

Finally, a woman emerges, blonde hair and blue eyes and a bright smile on her face. She stands before the Barrington's and clasps her hands in front of her.

"You're free to go now," she says.

Mrs. Barrington looks at her, her face falling. "What? What do you mean? Where is Rupert?"

The woman's expression never falters. "You're free to go now," she repeats, and as she says it an Enforcer appears behind her, his gun held tightly at his chest.

Mrs. Barrington lets out a pitiful strangled cry. Mr. Barrington holds her shoulders as he picks her up and steers her quickly out of the Department. I usher the children outside, followed behind by Mr. Nevvett whose face is staring blankly ahead.

_**For lialovegood, TeamGaleSoIGetPeeta, SkyeElf, Shikishima, RedVelvetCupcakesForever, skaterofthebooks, FireExtinguisher, BreadWinner and MaisyB. Thanks for the reviews.**_


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